TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 7 of 9. In which the title of this fic becomes clearer, and Eloise indulges her fantasies, just a little… As always, huge thankyou hugs to LB, for beta-ing. Lines of dialogue from the ep 'Loyalty'. Italicized quote on the nature of the past from 'The Go-Between' by L.P.Hartley.

Chapter title and quote from 'The Hound of Heaven' by Francis Thompson.

'I fled him, down the night and down the days

 I fled him down the arches of the years,

 I fled him, down the labyrinthine ways

 Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears.'

Chapter 7: The Arches of the Years.

The door banged behind him, as he tossed his hockey stick against the pile of boxes next to the hall stand. He suddenly noticed the dusty footprints he had left on the braided rug in the hallway. It wasn't as if they had ever worried too much about the place looking perfect, but Mrs. Wilson would be over later to do the final clean before they left. And Connor didn't really want another half hearted second-hand lecture from his uncle on the state of the house.

As if on cue, his uncle appeared in the door way leading to the kitchen.

'That you, Connor?' He sounded tired, and Connor noticed that he was wearing his glasses again, rather than his contacts.

'You hoping for Mrs. Wilson?' he countered, hoping to coax a smile out of him.

'Please, Connor, try to pick up the worst of the debris before she comes.' Deep sigh. 'You're not the one who has to listen to her going on about the youth of today.'

Uncle Wes smiled tiredly as he spoke, and Connor grinned in return, obligingly trudging up to the bombsite that was his bedroom, to sort through the piles of festering clothes and various experimental mould cultures which had flourished in a few discarded take-away boxes.

He carried the rotting containers down to the kitchen, where his uncle was preparing one of the six dishes he could actually cook. From the familiar scent of basil, he had guessed his uncle's university bedsit favourite, spag bol, and leaned over his shoulder to peer into the saucepan.

'Dear God, what in heaven's name are you carrying?'

He glanced at the penicillin culture in his hand and grinned wickedly.

'Thought maybe your sauce could use a little seasoning…' he offered, then dodged past the man to drop the boxes into the trash.

His uncle sighed loudly, and began his usual routine on smart-mouthed teenagers who were getting a bit too big for their boots, while he flopped down at the kitchen table and rested said boots on the chair opposite.

'What's with the home cooking? Thought we were supposed to be packing all this stuff.' He gestured to the pots and pans piled into a packing crate in the corner of the kitchen. He eyed the cookie jar on the table top and wondered if he could distract the man long enough to swipe some.

'Felt guilty about the amount of takeout we were consuming. Apparently you're a growing boy, or some such thing.' He poked absently at the sauce with a wooden spoon.

'Yeah, that's me, nutritionally deprived child.' Connor took advantage of his turned back to ease the lid off the jar. Hand in, grab a couple, easy does it…

'Don't even think about it.' He was still leaning over the stove, stirring the sauce. 'I have eyes in the back of my head…' He paused, as if remembering something, ran his fingers over that particular area. 'Actually, that did happen to me once…'

'Freaky.' He was interested, though. 'What happened?'

His uncle carried a pan over to the sink and drained the pasta into a sieve. 'Your Aunt Cordy, she was out looking for money we were owed.'

Connor grinned broadly and lifted down bowls for the spaghetti. He loved 'Cordy' stories. He listened contentedly as he set the table, while his uncle struggled valiantly with errant strands of pasta that escaped from the sieve and wriggled onto the counter top. He set the bowls on the table, and sat down.

He missed them, Connor knew. He always got that wistful look when he told a story from his past. Or his future, depending on your point of view. Of places and people he had not seen for years. Fifteen years, to be exact, he had turned fifteen a few months ago. He knew why they were leaving; Uncle Wes had never hidden anything from him. He knew who his parents were, the vampire with a soul, and his resurrected sire, Darla. He knew why Uncle Wes had taken him from his father fifteen years before. And he knew why they had to go back.

Back to the future.

That was a private joke they shared, Connor loved that film, and got a real kick out of the whole concept, especially when Uncle Wes was in the middle of a 'why we don't draw attention to ourselves by being unbelievably good at every sport you try, Connor' lecture.

'Got it, Doc,' he would kid, managing to crack the frown on his uncle's unusually solemn face.

But he secretly knew that he was right, it would not do for them to be discovered before time.

And so he tried to play down his abilities, faking a missed shot or tackle when possible. He was surprised that Uncle Wes had even allowed him to play on the hockey team. He had come home from practice with the news that he had been picked to play centre, practically bouncing off the walls with pride, and his uncle had started to shake his head apologetically, ready to deny his permission. Then Connor had held up the number three jersey, and the words had died on his lips. He had simply nodded his acquiescence, slipping off his glasses and turning back to the paper he was marking.

Connor had known there was something deeper behind the man's sudden change of heart, but he had decided not to push it, had simply given his uncle a brief grateful hug, and headed out to Scott's house, before he had a chance to change his mind.

'- any plans for tonight?' Uncle Wes was twisting his fork in his spaghetti, toying with it more than anything.

'Don't play with your food.' Connor was relieved to see a grin on his face. 'Come on, Uncle Wes, it's not bad, really. Even for you.'

His uncle obediently swallowed a mouthful of food. 'So, are you going out? Last night with the guys before we -' his voice dropped '- leave.'

'There's a party thing over at Scott's house. And before you start, yes, his parents will be there and there will be no beer, drugs or sex.'

His uncle raised a sardonic eyebrow, for a moment his old self. 'Though there will of course be rock and roll.'

'Oh, of course. Played at an annoyingly loud volume.' He was quoting his uncle directly, producing another smile.

Then Uncle Wes became suddenly serious.

'Not too late home, Con. We've a busy day tomorrow.'

'I know. Finish packing.' He returned the sober look. 'Practice.'

His uncle nodded. 'You've been studying hard, I know.' He looked over to the window, his face pensive. 'It's not fair, expecting you to cope with… this, as well as your school work.'

Connor shook his head fiercely, poked him in the arm. 'Hey. No backing out now. We have a job to do. You didn't force me into anything.'

His uncle had turned very red, and he laid his fork down, folded his hands in front of him on the table.

'You never had a choice, Connor.' In a voice so quiet he almost didn't catch it.

He reached over, laid his hand over his uncle's. 'Neither did you, Uncle Wes.'

The hand below his twitched, and he laced his fingers through the other man's, and tightened them.

He hated this, seeing the shame that the man had no reason to feel. Connor could not have asked for a more idyllic upbringing; had spent his childhood years in contented bliss, knowing he was cared for, protected, cherished. His uncle had told him of a vampire with a soul and a prophecy that predicted death; of a wish made in a desperate attempt to gain more time; of a family that awaited him back in Los Angeles. He had grown up with the knowledge that he was special. That he had a destiny.

And he knew that in a little over a day he would return to the place and time he had disappeared from to fulfil that destiny.

*~*~*~*

He removed his glasses, set them beside the file on his desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb.

For the first few years of their life in the past, he had taken to wearing contacts, as no one he had ever met had seen him without spectacles. Just one way of disguising his appearance, along with a fine beard shadow. He could never bring himself to allow a full beard, that reminded him too much of his father. He didn't think he could bear to look into that face in the mirror every morning. But as he had grown older, his eyesight had deteriorated with the constant book work, and he had judged it safe to adopt his glasses again.

He looked down at the documents Halfrek had sent with him, suddenly recalling the look of tenderness that she had bestowed upon him, before granting his wish. He closed his eyes and remembered.

He was plunged into a brief but terrifying darkness, then opened his eyes to find himself bathed in the warmth of the early morning sun, Connor sleeping peacefully in his arms. His bags and the prophecy notes beside him on the pavement. He looked around, realizing he was still in Sunnydale, but not one he recognized. Plus his SUV was gone.

It was clearly morning, but not so early that the shops were closed. There were shutters up; the news stand next to where his car had been parked was already trading. He gathered his few belongings and walked over, as casually as his rapidly beating heart would allow, and purchased one of the few copies of The Times. 

The date at the top of the page confirmed what he had begun to suspect.

6th March 1987.

He scanned the headlines automatically, fighting the wave of dizzying nausea which swept over him.

187 killed as ferry capsizes at Zebrugge.

He remembered that; his father had been in Europe at the time on Council business, and had been booked to return by ferry. Had changed his mind and decided to fly. And somewhere deep inside him, Wesley had felt a tiny shameful twinge of disappointment.

That had been his A –level year, he had been head boy. A self-righteous prig, he realized now, far too concerned about rules and regulations. He reddened with embarrassment at the memory of his younger self. With that thought came the realization that he needed to get out of Sunnydale as soon as possible. It would not do to come across younger versions of Cordelia, Willow or Xander.

He opened the file that Halfrek had handed him, contained within were several documents, the first that caught his attention was a small navy passport, issued in 1986 to one Wesley W. Peregrine, legal guardian of Connor A. Peregrine. He could not help the smile that crept onto his lips, his admiration for this Justice Demon growing deeper by the minute. She had not only provided for every eventuality, but done so with style and wit, knowing that he would appreciate the Latin meaning of his new surname.

'The past is a foreign country' indeed, he thought to himself, and cuddled the sleeping babe close to his chest.

And it had been shockingly simple, the move to Vancouver, settling themselves in a quiet village to the east of the city. Careful not to draw any more attention to himself than was necessary, Wesley had found employment as a lecturer in one of the city's community colleges, lecturing in medieval English literature and linguistics. Not particularly challenging or highly paid work, he was the first to admit, but his knowledge of the outcome of every rugby world cup and cricket test series over the next fifteen years had certainly helped to supplement their income.

He looked over at one of the few boxes still left in the room, containing some of the rarer texts he had gathered over the years, most of them paid for with those ill gotten gains. But these had been a necessary expense, if he was ever going to decipher the links between the three prophecies.

And he had almost done it. Thanks to Halfrek , he had found the time he had so desperately needed to research the demon Sahjhan, to understand Connor's part in his downfall, had gained understanding of the passage which talked of building heaven in a hell's despair. He had even managed to make some sense of the Nyazian prophecy, that terrible, awful, simple prediction that the father would kill the son.

But the true meaning behind the first prophecy still eluded him. He had been studying the scrolls for almost eighteen years now, and he could not see how it connected with the others.

Here he was, only a day away from the fulfilment of all three prophecies, and he was still utterly clueless. He looked down at his notes, at the underlined phrase that he had translated so long ago.

'Redemption through forgiveness…'

The apocalyptic evil, the coming darkness, the fiend unleashed; that was all well and good. But there was no way Angel could ever be forgiven. So many people had been hurt not only by Angelus, but also by the souled version of the vampire. And most of his victims and their families were long dead, therefore lacking the ability to forgive whether they willed it or not. The only possibility of pardon lay with Holtz, and Wesley could not imagine the man granting absolution to the demon who had callously slaughtered his family. He honestly could not see how the Shanshu prophecy would be realized.

And he was running out of time, again. Nothing changes, Wesley. Still failing, after all these years. His father's voice mocked him, as clear in his head as the last time they had spoken on the telephone, sixteen years ago. He stood up abruptly, and closed the prophecy, placing it in the worn leather briefcase by the desk. Moved into the den, where Connor was dozing in front of the television.

He gazed at the form of the sleeping child. Not in all things, Father. This was something he had not failed in.

They had spent the day in preparation for the confrontation that awaited them in Sunnydale. Connor had studied diligently, as he always did, and had perfected both the spell and the fighting techniques he needed to face Sahjhan. He had observed the fierce concentration on the child's face as he swung the sword with precise strokes, and Wesley's heart had swelled until he thought his chest might burst with pride.

An angel of a child, his kindergarten teacher had called him, and Wesley had bitten his lip so hard it bled. Connor had been his life. He was a carefree, sunny-natured little boy, a disposition that amazed Wesley, considering his dark parentage. He had encouraged the boy's inquisitive nature, and tried to be as open as possible with him about his family, his destiny.

And Connor had accepted it all, as it were the most natural thing in the world to be the impossible offspring of two vampires, to be kidnapped by your father's best friend to protect you from prophetic infanticide. And had accepted that he had a part to play in the prophecies; had embraced his role with a dedication and tenacity which had almost broken Wesley.

He certainly did not deserve to be this happy. He looked at Connor's face, seeming younger in sleep than his fifteen years. Noted the tiny ghost of a scar at his hairline, where he had fallen during a junior hockey game, and smacked his head against the goal post, knocking out a first tooth in the process. Remembered the hot shock of guilt that hit him in the gut, as he had held the child's hand while the wound was stitched.  Connor had feebly protested that he was fine, it was a foul, and 'Did we win, Uncle Wes?'

Remembered Angel's words in the lobby of the hotel, as he and Gunn had fooled around with the tiny hockey sticks.

'I know it's a bit too early to be thinking about stuff like this, but I can't wait to watch him, you know, grow up. For him to lose his first tooth… learn how to ride a bike…'

He did not deserve this. He had stolen the man's son, his beloved baby, had robbed him of the chance to see his child grow up. Wesley thought of Holtz, swearing blood vengeance for the murder of his children. Truly, he was no better than Angelus. He reached out and brushed his hand lightly over Connor's hair. The child shifted position and murmured something in his sleep.

'I'm sorry, Angel.' Wesley whispered.

*~*~*~*

'Can I get you anything, sir? A drink, perhaps?'

Wesley smiled politely at the hostess and shook his head.

'No thanks.'

She eyed the sleeping teenager curled in the window seat.

'Perhaps I could leave a soda…? For when he wakes up?'

'Well, maybe a Pepsi, thanks.'

She retrieved the requested drink from the refrigerated trolley and handed Wes the can and a plastic cup. He accepted them politely and placed them on the tray beside his book, hoping that she would move onto the next passenger.

'You're off to L.A. on business?' She was looking down at the file between the seats, the briefcase at his feet.

Wesley did not wish to be rude, but it was really quite imperative that he spend these last few hours studying the Shanshu translations.

'Not exactly. We have family there.'

She gave a bright smile, and lifted a soft fleece blanket from the overhead locker, spreading it over Connor.

'There you go. Don't want him to catch cold.' She began to push the trolley. 'Now you have a good stay in the city of the angels.'

She moved on to the seat in front. Connor stirred in his sleep, and rubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes.

'Hey,' Wes said softly, as he gradually returned to full consciousness. 'You thirsty?'

The boy nodded, and Wesley handed him the can of soda. Watched him intently as he poured the drink into the plastic cup, and realized that Connor's hands were shaking slightly.

'Are you alright?'

Connor nodded again, but steadfastly refused to meet his eyes.

'Connor?' His voice was quiet but resolute, the tone he used when he required a verbal answer.

'I – I'm fine. Just a bit tired, is all.'

The boy was lying, of course. He was a dreadful liar, always had been, displaying all the non verbal signs of dishonesty. He had blushed poppy red, and was rubbing his forefinger over his eyebrow compulsively, still avoiding any eye contact.

'Connor, come on. What's on your mind?'

As if he didn't know. As if they weren't headed into the mouth of hell.

Connor finally raised his eyes to meet Wesley's, and to his sorrow he read there shame and self disgust.

'It's stupid. I shouldn't feel like this, I know, but…'

'Con, it's okay to be afraid.' He reached out and rested his hand on the boy's forearm. Felt the pulse race under his fingertips.

Connor dropped his head again, and Wesley placed his hand against his cheek. A muscle twitched beneath his palm.

'Connor, you trust me, don't you?'

'Yes.' His voice barely a whisper.

'It will be alright. Your father loves you…' felt his own voice tremble a fraction 'and I won't let anything harm you.'

He stroked his thumb over a cheekbone, felt dampness there, and his heart constricted. He guided the dark head over to his chest, and held him gently, his hand fluttering through the boy's hair.

'We'll be fine, I promise.'

He was a much better liar than Connor.